Mo had no idea where to go either, so was heading back to his van. Harper found the last of his strength and began closing in again as they re-entered the field.
In the gathering light of dawn Mo knew he couldn’t make it to the truck. He didn’t dare get caught, so he ran to one of the holding ponds and climbed up the side. He stopped at the top. The venomous vapours of the shit-pit were caustic in his nose and throat. He felt immediately dizzy. Harper approached slowly, his pistol by his side.
‘Maurice, give yourself up,’ he panted. ‘There’s nowhere to go.’ Mo turned, breathing heavily. He stared at Harper, who took another few steps forward. ‘Come on, we can help you. We can look after you. Don’t kill yourself. Come down.’
‘I didn’t do nothing. I didn’t hurt them. I promise. I just looked after them. I didn’t ever hurt them.’
‘I’m sure you didn’t, Maurice, but what happened to Lottie?’
Mo looked round. He didn’t know what to say. ‘Tell him I’m sorry.’
‘Who? Tell who, Mo?’
‘I was supposed to give her water. I liked her a lot. I get to like them a lot.’
‘Who, Mo? I can’t tell him if I don’t know who he is.’
‘I only wanted to stroke them. I like how they feel. I like them all warm. I didn’t hurt them. I didn’t do it. I only wanted to pet them.’
For a moment Mo looked as though he might turn himself in. Harper climbed towards him with slow steps, reaching out with his arm. ‘Come down now, Maurice.’ He could see the fear and tears in Maurice’s eyes. He looked like a child. ‘Come on, you’re not in trouble. We’ll help you to make it all better.’ Harper was at the edge of the pool. Maurice was within reach. He put out his hand towards Maurice and Maurice’s big paw moved to meet it. Just before they touched, Maurice smiled. Then he threw himself backwards into the vast pit of venomous slurry. The pig shit closed over the dark figure in an instant. He was gone.
Chapter Eighty-Three
Downtown New York
December 1, 3.10 p.m.
The streets of the Financial District in New York are much like many other streets across America. The sidewalks are flanked by towers in light shades of concrete grey. Originality can be seen in the little early twentieth-century architectural flourishes around the entrances and windows, but these minor stylistic touches are secondary to the great power of economics and the need to maximize floor space.
Sebastian walked past the buildings, enjoying the sight of their stately confidence. He was carrying a suit bag and feeling good about things. He liked to walk and watch. The traffic streamed down the street and he looked at the rows of expensive cars parked up and down. He came to the entrance to Le Monte, a luxury hotel with a gold and green sign. It lacked any of the pomp of the old buildings and asserted its status with curly gold lettering and plush colours.
Sebastian entered. He had an appointment with an English tailor. He had a weakness for clothes, in particular for bespoke Savile Row suits. He only had one, but loved it each time he wore it. He always thought that it gave him a kind of religious feeling of forgiveness, just like Dee said Christ could. But the suit was more convenient than Christ. He could put it on whenever he wanted the clear lines and balance of superbly tailored fine wool to wash him clean of sin and make him a perfect citizen again.
Sebastian took the elevator to the conference suite for his appointment with the visiting tailors from William and Roger Burke amp; Co. of Savile Row, London. Many English tailors had taken to these visits to the bigger American cities and the local businessmen and dignitaries loved the old-fashioned glamour and deep subservience involved in being measured and made for.
Sebastian was met at the temporary reception area by a delightfully fresh-faced English girl, who introduced herself as Melissa. She was so finely dressed, so elegant in every way that Sebastian thought she might have been turned on a lathe and made in some gorgeous London babe factory. A twinge in his stomach made him want to reach out and grab her.
The thick red carpet, gold and red colour scheme and low lighting of the suite managed to give this hotel an old English feel. He was met by the tailor and the cutter, Messrs Henry Oldfield and Graham Winder. Henry was in his fifties, white-haired and tanned, wearing a blue pinstriped three-piece suit with a plain blue tie. Graham was in his early forties and wore a rather striking electric blue suit with a red tie.
The new and the old, thought Sebastian. Catering to all tastes, no doubt. He glanced again at Melissa as she placed a champagne bucket and glasses on the coffee table. His mind wandered momentarily into a fantasy and then snapped back to the gentlemen offering their cream-softened hands.
The three men sat in a circle of red velvet chairs for their ‘consultation’.
‘Firstly,’ said Henry, ‘we need to understand the nature of your need.’
‘That is very hard to explain,’ said Sebastian.
‘We shall do our utmost to make these decisions simple, sir.’
Sebastian liked being called sir. He turned to Melissa and met her gaze. He smiled. He could do anything. That’s what his gaze said and Melissa lowered her eyes. So like animals, aren’t we? Just a pecking order based on power and the capacity for violence and love.
‘Is it for a special occasion, day wear, evening wear or business wear?’ Henry was leaning in, his kind, understanding head tilted and his warm grey eyes searching to please.
Sebastian didn’t know what was next. The Progession of Love was finished, but already Sebastian felt that it was not going to be enough to make him stop. Maybe he would appear to his next victim as the perfect, well- dressed gentleman and become in an instant the ogre of unimaginable debauchery. If he was not feeling so cautious, he would have loved to have chosen Melissa as a delicate taster. He’d never killed an English victim. He was interested to see how the different culture might express itself at the moment of death. Would the English reserve remain, or give way to uncontrollable cries?
‘I have brought a specimen suit,’ said Sebastian. He indicated the suit bag, and the fleet-footed and slender- ankled Melissa held it aloft.
‘Unzip, please,’ said Sebastian to Melissa. His thumb rubbed against his forefinger as he watched her reveal his suit and hold it up. The two tailors looked at it.
‘Richard Anderson, is it?’ said Graham with the faintest nuance of disdain.
‘It is,’ said Sebastian.
Henry went across and looked at the suit carefully. Every so often he murmured to himself. Finally he returned to his client.
‘I would like to show you something a little different. I can see the elegance of the long lapel and the single button, it is flattering and undeniably sharp. What would suit, sir, might be something with a little more hint of the dandy. I’m suggesting perhaps a double-breasted classic two-button double-vented jacket with jetted side pockets in a fine nine-ounce worsted flannel. Very elegant. Cut double-pleated trousers with a two-inch turn-up. Very unusual in these parts but just the mix of tradition and modern style.’
Graham went to the long bench behind them to find a nine-ounce Super 100 worsted flannel. He brought a roll of material to Sebastian and offered the edge to his fingers.
Sebastian rolled the material between his forefinger and thumb. ‘Superb.’
‘Would Sir like to study some of the colours and patterns?’
Sebastian said he would, and stood, turning slightly so that his eye fell on a folded newspaper that was sitting on the table.
Sebastian’s attention was drawn by the first word of the bold headline. He tilted his head to one side to see the picture. It was a face. A girl’s face in a grainy unflattering photograph. ‘A second,’ he said to the tailors, and moved to the table.
His heart was beating now.
He took up the afternoon edition and opened it. There in the centre was a large photograph of his Mo, flanked by photographs of two women, Lottie and Lucy.
Sebastian was aware of the people behind him watching him, but the emotion building in his chest was taking
